The coat was saturated with gasoline now. Brett shook it out, fumbled a matchbox from his pocket—then threw the sodden container aside. The battery caught his eye, clamped in a rusted frame under the hood. He jerked the pistol from its holster, used it to short the terminals. Tiny blue sparks jumped. He jammed the coat near, rasped the gun against the soft lead poles. With a whoosh! the coat caught, yellow flames leaped, soot-rimmed. Brett snatched it by a sleeve, whirled, flung the blazing garment over the great Gel as it sped toward him.
The creature went mad. It slumped, lashed itself against the pavement. The burning coat was thrown clear. The Gel threw itself across the pavement, into the gutter, sending a splatter of filthy water over Brett. From the corner of his eye, Brett saw Dhuva totter, then seize the burning coat, hurl it into the pooled gasoline in the gutter. Fire leaped up twenty feet high; in its center the great Gel bucked and writhed. The ancient car shuddered as the frantic monster struck it. Black smoke boiled up; an unbelievable stench came to Brett’s nostrils. He backed, coughing. Flames roared around the front of the car. Paint blistered and burned. A tire burst. In a final frenzy the Gel whipped clear, lay, a great blackened shape of melting rubber, twitching, then still. His eyes met Dhuva’s.
“Good thinking, Brett,” the latter said. “How did you know?” he queried.
“I didn’t,” Brett admitted. “It just seemed that fire and water are natural enemies, so I tried it.”
“And saved my life!” Dhuva said.
Brett nodded. “Now we know what to do,” he went on.
Dhuva’s expression was anxious. “All we have to do is get out,” he commented.
Brett shook his head. “We can’t just let them proceed with what they’re doing,” he insisted. “I think they’re just establishing a base here. Wavly, or Casperton, might be next. We have to do something!”
Dhuva was shaking his head.
“They’ve tunneled under everything,” Brett said. “They’ve cut through power lines and water lines, concrete, steel, earth; they’ve left the shell, shored up with spidery-looking trusswork. Somehow they’ve kept water and power flowing to wherever they needed it—”
“I don’t care about your theories,” Dhuva said. “I only want to get away.”
“It’s bound to work, Dhuva. I need your help.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll have to try alone.” He turned away.
“Wait,” Dhuva called. He came up to Brett. “I owe you a life; you saved mine. I can’t let you down now. But if this doesn’t work . . . or if you can’t find what you want—”
“Then we’ll go.”
Together they turned down a side street, walking rapidly. At the next corner Brett pointed.
“There’s one!” They crossed to the service station at a run. Brett tried the door. Locked. He kicked it open, splintering the wood around the lock. He glanced around inside. “No good,” he called. “Try the next building. I’ll check the one behind.”
He crossed the wide drive, battered in a door, looked in at a floor covered with wood shavings. It ended ten feet from the door. Brett went to the edge, looked down. Diagonally, forty feet away, the underground five-thousand-gallon storage tank which supplied the gasoline pumps of the station perched, isolated, on a column of striated clay, ribbed with chitinous Gel buttresses. The truncated feed lines ended six feet from the tank. From Brett’s position, it was impossible to say whether the ends were plugged.
Across the dark cavern a square of light appeared. Dhuva stood in a doorway looking toward Brett, then started along the ledge toward him.
“Over here, Dhuva!” Brett’s shout echoed. “—va! Over here . . .” He uncoiled his rope, arranged a slip-noose. He measured the distance with his eye, tossed the loop. It slapped the top of the tank, caught on a massive fitting. He smashed the glass from a window behind him, tied the end of the rope to the center post. Dhuva arrived, watched as Brett went to the edge, hooked his legs over the rope, and started across to the tank.
It was an easy crossing. Brett’s feet clanged against the tank. He straddled the six-foot cylinder, worked his way to the end, then clambered down to the two two-inch feed lines. He tested their resilience, then lay flat, eased out on them. There were plugs of hard waxy material in the cut ends of the lines. Brett poked at them with the pistol. Chunks loosened and fell. He worked for fifteen minutes before the first trickle came. Two minutes later, two thick streams of gasoline were pouring down into the darkness. Brett heard them splashing far below.
Brett and Dhuva piled sticks, scraps of paper, shavings, and lumps of coal around a core of gasoline-soaked rags. Directly above the heaped tinder a taut rope stretched from the window post to a child’s wagon, the steel bed of which contained a second heap of combustibles. The wagon hung half over the ragged edge of the floor.
“It should take about fifteen minutes for the fire to burn through the rope,” Brett said. “Then the wagon will fall and dump the hot coals in the gasoline. By then it will have spread all over the surface and flowed down side tunnels into parts of the cavern system.”
“But it may not get them all.”
“It will get some of them,” Brett pointed out doggedly. “It’s the best we can do right now. You get the fire going in the wagon; I’ll start this one up.”
Dhuva sniffed the air. “That fluid,” he said. “We know it in Wavly as phlogistoleum. The wealthy use it for cooking.”
“We’ll use it to cook Gels.” Brett struck a match. The fire leaped up, smoking. Dhuva watched, struck his match awkwardly, started his blaze. They stood for a moment watching. The nylon curled and blackened, melting in the heat.
“We’d better get moving,” Brett said. “It doesn’t look as though it will last fifteen minutes.”
They stepped out into the street. Behind them wisps of smoke curled from the door and the broken window. Dhuva seized Brett’s arm. “Look!”
Half a block away the fat man in the panama hat strode toward them at the head of a group of men in grey flannel. “That’s him!” the fat man shouted. “The one I told you about. I knew the scoundrel would be back!” He slowed, eyeing Brett and Dhuva warily.
“You’d better get away from here, fast!” Brett called. “There’ll be an explosion in a few minutes—”
“Smoke!” the fat man yelped. “Fire! They’ve set fire to the city! There it is! Pouring out of the window . . . and the door!” He started forward. Brett yanked the pistol from the holster, thumbed back the hammer.
“Stop right there!” he barked. “For your own good I’m telling you to run. I don’t care about that crowd of golems you’ve collected, but I’d hate to see a real human get hurt—even a cowardly son of a bitch like you.”
“These are honest citizens,” the fat man gasped, standing, staring at the gun. “You won’t get away with this. We all know you. You’ll be dealt with . . .”
“We’re going now. And you’re going too.”
“You can’t kill us all,” the fat man said. He licked his lips. “We won’t let you destroy our fair city. We’ll—”
As the fat man turned to exhort his followers Brett fired, once, twice, three times. Three golems fell on their faces. The fat man whirled.
“Devil!” he shrieked. “A killer is abroad!” He charged, mouth open. Brett ducked aside, tripped the fat man. He fell heavily, slamming his face against the pavement. The golems surged forward. Brett and Dhuva slammed punches to the sternum, took clumsy blows on the shoulder, back, chest. Golems fell, and lay threshing futilely. Brett ducked a wild swing, toppled his attacker, turned to see Dhuva deal with the last of the dummies. The fat man sat in the street, dabbing at his bleeding nose, the panama still in place.
“Get up,” Brett commanded. “There’s no time left.”
“You’ve killed them. Killed them all . . .” The fat man got to his feet, then turned suddenly and plunged for the door from which a cloud of smoke poured. Brett hauled him back. He and Dhuva started off, dragging the struggling man between them. They had gone a block when their prisoner, with a sudden frantic jerk, freed himself, set off at a run for the fire.
“Let him go!” Dhuva cried. “It’s too late to go back!”
The fat man leaped fallen golems, wrestled with the door, disappeared into the smoke. Brett and Dhuva sprinted for the corner. As they rounded it a tremendous blast shook the street. The pavement before them quivered, opened in a wide crack. A ten-foot section dropped from view. They skirted the gaping hole, dashed for safety as the facades along the street cracked, fell in clouds of dust. The street trembled under a second explosion. Cracks opened, dust rising in puffs from the long, widening fissures. Masonry shells collapsed around them. They put their heads down and ran.